


Teneramente

by Sabulum



Category: Only Lovers Left Alive (2013)
Genre: (of a sort), Asexual Relationship, Biting, Bloodplay, Bruises, Endearments, F/M, Fluff, Light Dom/sub, Non-Sexual Bondage, Non-Sexual Submission, Scratching, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:11:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1514984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabulum/pseuds/Sabulum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eve has a way of quieting the cacophony inside Adam's mind. With her, it is simply peaceful.</p><p>With her, it's easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teneramente

**Author's Note:**

> My little contribution to the OLLA fandom, written in lieu of sleep one night. Anyone who knows me will not be surprised that it comes in the form of affectionate D/s and music metaphors. :P
> 
> Note: I'm going off the assumption that vampires are inherently asexual, as a result of their undead nature. I've rated this M, though, because T just didn't feel right.
> 
> Thanks to [strangersatthemall](http://strangersatthemall.tumblr.com/) for being an excellent beta-reader!

There is a quiet part of Adam which says he should be above this. A part whose only voice lies in string and sound, for he will never voice its thoughts aloud; a part which has survived through all these centuries, through the trials and uprootings, through the blood and the bleedings, through the Turning; a part unaffected by longevity or will or the innovations of the apothecaries or by anything at all under the moon.

At times it is a numbing, funereal drone that darkens his thoughts. At other times it rings out an ugly, discordant note of self-hatred. But at times like these, it is an insistent hum which says he should be able to regulate himself; that he is ancient, and _vampire_ , and should be above needing this.

Need is for zombies.

But Eve just makes it so damn easy.

"Turn over, my dearest," she whispers fondly.

There is no pressure in it, and Adam is reminded that he loves her. He does, sheets rustling as he rolls to settle his cheek on their pillow, exhaling a long breath. Her palm lands flat on his spine. The hum grows quiet in the ensemble. She caresses down, feeling the age and life of his vertebrae; mapping him anew, feeling the music of him in her own way. Her power sinks through his skin and he feels it, warm and strong in his veins, sweeter than blood.

He knows not whether the feeling is truly physical, or a simple psychological response. He has long since lost track. Nonetheless, he loves Eve's hands.

"Raise your arms, darling, if you would."

Adam does. She cuffs him to the bed frame with soft, practiced motions, caressing his wrists in passing as she does. He relaxes a bit more at the staccato bite of the leather; at Eve leaning over him, gazing down with a centuries-old fondness.

"One of the zombies' better inventions," he says, not for the first time. On occasion he has even meant it.

Eve just hums in affection, stroking up his shoulders and arms, barely grazing the leather on his wrists before twining fingers with his in a long, sensual stretch. "Indeed," she finally breathes. In the shadow on the wall, he sees her head thrown back. "1938. London..." Her lips brush his ear, placing a kiss gently just below. He feels her smile against him; feels her warm resonance just above him and sighs in pleasure. "We've made some better memories with these, since then. Haven't we?"

His reply is a wordless sound.

"Adam. Close your eyes, love."

Adam does.

Her weight presses him into the mattress, and his mind falls silent in a way no drug could manage.

She hums, again, against his neck. "Are you comfortable, dear?"

He nods, and she strokes his hair with those glorious hands. "Stay just like that, then. Be good for me, darling."

It would never occur to him to disobey.

In absence of a pounding heart—in absence of the fire, the _passion_ of living blood—all is still, and Adam knows nothing except Eve and her love for him. She maps him, lips cool on his skin, kissing down his neck and nape as her hands trail lazy paths along his spine. Her shirt drags a slow, sibilant note against the sheets; her breathing is a rhythmic undertone; the occasional pleased sound escapes her lips, pleasing _him_ in turn, that she finds joy in him; and it all melds into the greater symphony of her presence, of her _touch_.

It's beautiful. His skin sings with the bliss of it. He would have her compose this way all night—all year, all century, all his _life_ , for however many years or centuries that life may last. It is more skillful than any song he could dream to write.

"Eve," he whispers eventually, his mind in a fog.

Her weight settles heavy over top of him. "I'm here, Adam," she reassures. "Tell me what you need."

A brief, discordant note; her suggestion strikes him, and Adam aches.

Eve feels it. She squeezes his sides, firmly, and presses harder into him. Repeats: "Tell me what you need."

Adam makes a sound of wanting and Eve shifts to straddle him, hands settling on his shoulders as if he'd asked for it, fingertips still stroking in a constant affirmation of his vitality. She pins him without effort, and the discordance resolves. Then her nails dig in, dragging a sigh from him. "Yes. Please, Eve, more of that."

"Of the nails, darling?"

His only response is a happy murmur.

"I see," she says, as sure as if he'd spoken clearly. She digs in again, then scratches long furrows down his back. He moans, melting further into the mattress at the exquisite sting; the blood in him is slow to rise to the surface, but rise it does, small droplets beading, filling the air with their heady scent. Above him, Eve's tender smile goes unappreciated.

"Do you want the switch, Adam?"

Desire sings in him, and he breathes deeply at the thought of such a pain. But he shakes his head. "No. No, I just... you. Please."

Eve smears the blood across his skin and contemplates. It's always easier for him, somehow, when it's just her. She scratches him again lightly. "Nails, then."

"Yes," he gasps.

"Mm. And hands? Do you want me to bruise that pale flesh?"

"Yes. Yes, _please_." He loves Eve's hands.

"Very well, dear." Her fingers press hard into his hips, and she shifts to sprawl full-length atop him. Her shirt is soft against his back; he buries his face in the pillow and whimpers as her nails dig gouges and her power warms him with every touch.

Adam lives for this. This, these moments, are why he has not yet simply faded into oblivion. When the music in him is attuned to her, playing only what she wishes—with her wishes most often being pleasure and relaxation—

These moments accent the fact that he is hers. _Marcatissimo_ , her ownership resonating throughout every note.

Handling him roughly, Eve pushes and shoves like an over-aggressive masseuse until he's splayed as she wants beneath her, spread out where she can drag stripes down his back, thighs and buttocks; where she can reach around to press hands into his chest and leave her fingerprints on his collarbones. Small gasps escape him at the small, almost teasing pains, repeated at her leisure until she tires of them. A possessive motif.

Once, when she grips too close to his neck, he twitches; tugs against the cuffs and hears, again, that discordant note. Eve pauses, reaching up to splay her fingers with his, and whispers for him to calm, her face buried between his shoulder blades.

Adam does.

Her hand squeezes once, gently, then crawls down his chest.

"Hair?" she questions eventually, when he's marked with bruises and sharp red lines all down the length of him. Adam gives breathless assent, so she rises up and digs fingers into messy black strands. A sharp tug arches him off the mattress, then she grinds her knee into the small of his back and stretches him out, pulling until he's taut against the cuffs, leather and wood alike creaking in protest. He moans in satisfaction at the counterpoint.

"You're beautiful, Adam." It's a whisper, too soft for him to protest as her free hand caresses again down his spine.

For a long moment, she just holds him that way. Suspended. Aching. The note rings out with long sustain, marking the transition into another passage, and he hangs on the edge, anticipating either a rise or fall. He hears her steady breaths; feels her strength grounding him in that vivid moment, in the ache of his limbs and his submission to her.

Then, with a quiet rustling, she bows to press her face into his neck. She inhales, nuzzling into the tight curve of his shoulder, and kisses him gently where the muscles bunch.

He shudders.

"Adam, my love," she says against him, soft. "Would you mind?"

Adam doesn't understand at first. But then her mouth presses against him, and he feels the sharp scrape of—

"Teeth, dear. May I bite you?"

He nods hastily, as best he can in his position. It's too much effort to speak.

Eve smiles at his easy agreement, tugging his head back and kissing down the length of his neck in reward. There’s the wet of her tongue, soothing where his pulse beats a shallow, stolen rhythm, and he shudders again all the way to his toes; then she sinks fangs deep in him and he gasps, arching impossibly further.

She doesn't feed. That would be—to a vampire, to a _lover_ , to steal their vitality that way—it would be a violation. Unspeakably cruel. But she could, if she wanted to. She could, and he whines at the feel of her fangs in his neck, shifting in him as she works her jaw. He's deaf to all but the pain and soaring _pleasure_ of her mouth. Blunt teeth press into him as surely as do her fangs, and she bites so hard he knows they'll leave impressions, bruising him until they can be healed at his next feeding. And he wants the marks. Oh, he _wants_ them.

Finally she pulls back, releasing him, and Adam slumps bonelessly against antique silk. Panting, he comes down from a high almost as good as blood, as good as the climax of a movement—or of sex, he supposes—and he only realizes that Eve has released his hair when she grabs it again, tugging lightly this time. He obeys her order to lift his head, turning, and his eyes flutter closed at the glorious sight of her smile.

Blood drips down his neck, scenting the air. Eve leans in to ghost her lips across his, breathing, "Beautiful."

She kisses him, the bright tang of copper in her mouth, and he whines as his tongue entwines with hers in a greedy search for his own blood. He maps the curve of her fangs, licks all the red from her in eager strokes, and wants more even when she pulls back with laughter bubbling from her—but he obeys, breath coming harsh. His own fangs are slow to recede.

She didn't feed of him, but it takes precious little to make him hunger.

"We're not bereft of all desires, are we, dear?"

Her voice is fond. Amused, even. Opening eyes which he knows will be dark with need, he meets her sideways look and grins. "That we are not."

Eve laughs, hands sliding up to grasp his wrists as she sprawls atop him again, saying without words that he is to stay. Adam lays quiet beneath her, turning his face into the pillow, and just breathes.

It jars him, the knowledge: he _needs_ this. It rings in him like an off-key note, but Eve does not hear the dissonance. She does not view him as fractured. She wants him, wants him to stay in the comfort of her embrace, wants it for the sole reason that he is _hers_ , and so Adam does.

Some minutes or hours later—he knows not which, nor does he care—she squeezes his wrists gently and rises.

He lays still as she unbuckles the cuffs, remaining boneless and pliant as she traces the injuries she left on him. To Eve, it is a deeply visceral thing. Adam seeks out one of her hands and brings it to his lips, soothed by the slow, reverential way she touches him, as if his every bruise is worth remembering. He lets her roll him over on sheets now stained with blood, eyes still closed; grumbles in protest when she straddles him only to then dig fingers into the marks on his hips. He opens his eyes, come down enough to be irritated at the ache, but her tender look drowns out his annoyance before he can give it voice. The grip is possessive, not harsh.

"You're beautiful, my Adam," she says simply.

A hum at the back of his mind protests, but he smothers it in warmth and closes his eyes once more. A smile threatens.

She strokes up his sides, soothing across the purpling bruises. Her power flares beneath his skin, mapping the lines and contours of his life in a familiar reassurance, and he settles, mind utterly quiet in the wake of her presence. The hum is silent. It would not dare intrude.

Eve makes it easy.

She has been there for every incarnation of him, and without her he knows he would not see many more.

“I love you most direly, you know.” The words slip from him unimpeded, and she makes a pleased sound low in her throat.

"And I, you."

Eve's gaze roams him, taking in what she has claimed ages ago. Her eyes reflect a knowledge of his history, as surely as she knows that the cuffs are from an asylum and that someone once died upon these sheets; not just because her power sings it to her, but because she was _there_. She has seen.

Twining fingers in his hair again, she curls atop him like a heavy blanket, ducking in to kiss his Adam's apple. There's a joke in there somewhere, he knows. Then, without warning, she lightly smacks his cheek and climbs off him.

"Come, my love," she says, a grin in her voice; "I hunger."

 _Why_ does he love those hands again, precisely?

Adam pries his eyes open enough to glare at her retreating back, her unceremonious exit leaving him cold. Again, a smile threatens, though he refuses to let it free when she _toys_ with him so. The smell of his blood clings thickly to their sheets.

Still.

He rises.

Wrapping himself in a robe, he follows his love into the living room, feeling the echoes of her symphony in lax muscles and raw, stinging flesh. The dissonance will return—it always does—but like the bruises, it is doomed to fade.

Eve wants him to come with her, and, as always, Adam does.

**Author's Note:**

> Marcatissimo: very strongly accented
> 
> Teneramente: tenderly


End file.
